Island
This is a sequel to Voyage Into Apocalypse, and is written by me, Smith. It stands as the final story of Before the Storm Foreword Two years is a long time to grieve. But grieve Orion has, as the death of his brother has thrown him into a depression that even he doesn't seem to be able to escape from. On the other side of the coin, William Eldon has been working away at a way to escape, planning to abandon Orion on the island for eternity. Those plans go awry when both Immortals start to see vivid hallucinations from their past, and both of them are forced to reevaluate their places on the island in a journey through all of their hopes, fears and regrets. I'm writing this in ten chapters of varying length; I want to give some justice to the whole Island storyline and to really conclude the Immortals' tale in a way that satisfies me. Voyage into Apocalypse left so much open because I wasn't writing much, and the third part of the Voyages trilogy never materialised for me to give them an adequate send-off. I really hope that people who have followed the Role Play story from the start, and those new to it, will appreciate this bookend. Story 'Chapter One, 15/1/11' Seawater splashed across Orion's face, his hands brushing the stubble on his chin and singeing the scars on his cheeks. He stood straight, ignoring the pain in his back. Looking out over the horizon, he sighed before turning back towards the beach and making his way through the light jungles that quilted this god-awful island. He reached the inscribed stone and half-heartedly muttered the words to open it. Inside, he crawled over to a chair and sat, as silence came swimming into the room. On the table lay a broken glass and an empty bottle of wine, beside which sat three rotting apples and a slice of hard bread. Orion considered these items with due care and attention, before reaching over and grabbing the wine bottle. He held it upside down above his mouth, as if trying to drain the last few drops. Nothing came from the bottle, and so he placed it back on the table and sighed again. There was that silence. It didn't sound like silence to him. It was like a banshee, screaming in his ear at every mistake he'd ever made. And he agreed with it. And then, as quickly as it had entered, the silence evaporated as there was a heavy knock on the door. Orion dragged himself to his feet and meandered over to the door, grasping at the handle and loosely turning it. As he stumbled back, a large man came into the room, closed the door and placed a large fish on the table. "You've got to get yourself out of this state," the man said, pulling a chair from the corner and sitting on the opposite side of the table to Orion, who was staring into space. "I've told you time and time again. It's not your fault they died." Orion turned his head. His face was still fixed in the echoing blank, but his eyes held a striking glance of accusation that made the tall man move back a few inches. He turned his head back again. "I've got nothing left to live for," he said. There was an awkward pause. The head turned once more, with a more determined flare. "I intend to die on this island." The words didn't ring true, but Orion wanted them to. Orion could never die, because he and his current companion were Immortals, alien beings from a Moon of Gielinor that didn't exist. And he would live forever, stuck on an island in the middle of a planet he had, in the two years since he had become trapped there, come to hate. "I've been working on the raft," the man said. Orion nodded. "It's coming along nicely." The man took a second to take in what Orion had become. On their first meeting he had been wearing a dark hood that shielded his features, and he had only pulled back the hood at the start of this depression, about two years ago. Back then he had been silver-haired with a chiselled chin and a certain aged wisdom. Now, in true Immortal fashion, he had grown younger, his hair darkening into a silky black and the wrinkles around his forehead beginning to loosen. The man then stood up, and wandered back over towards the door. "Will, where are you going?" Orion asked. "Back up to the Volcano." A sudden silence. Crickets chipped away. Will that Orion didn't like talking about the Volcano. He left the room quickly and climbed the ladder back up to the surface, where the morning sun was climbing high in the sky. He'd stayed the night in the Volcano. He was trying to give Orion some space. And to work on his project. The Volcano was now a mere scar on the landscape of the island, a mile-wide mole on the landscape, collapsed in towards itself. A few weeks ago Will had discovered that a few of the tunnels under the volcano still remained, and had fashioned them into his own quarters. It took half-a-day to walk from the cave to the Volcano, and so when Will entered the twisted and warped tunnels the sun was sitting high in the sky, as if dangling its legs off the side, and ready to jump. Will had tried his best to make his stony confines as hospitable as possible, creating windows to let in the light and adapting an old barrel into a collector for rainwater. But he still, to this day, couldn't shake the memories, the fears, that he had witnessed in that very room. This phobia, especially, made him keep his bed away from the large door that used to lead towards the jails, where three members of Orion's family had been killed and any hope of them leaving this island had vanished. In the now crushed Portal Room, a small red mist erupted from the ruins. Something was coming. End of Chapter 'Chapter Two, 16/1/11' Orion had already retrieved a second bottle of wine from the small larder in the far corner of the cave, had proceeded to take another glass off of one of the shelves and then, with vigour, downed three glasses without thought. He liked the way that the rusty sourness of the grape would settle and embed itself on his tongue. It was a pleasant distraction from the other matters which plagued him. Collapsing into the chair, Orion chuckled at nothing for a second, and fell asleep, the glass falling from his hand and once again shattering on the stone floor. William Eldon was out by the shore, his makeshift spear piercing the water and any life that happened to get in the way. He pulled the spear from the water and examined his spoils; a large tuna, two small crabs and a long string of seaweed. Decent enough for a meal. Scraping his catch into a bucket, he turned and threw the spear again. It hit the water and then, to his surprise, bounced off, as if repelled. Will caught the spear and dove his hand into the water. There was some resistance, but he pushed past it. At the bottom of the water he grasped a relatively small rounded orb, and pulled it gently from the water. He felt the weight of it in his hand - it was much lighter than he would imagine. He flipped it over. On the opposite side there was a blue marking like that of a tear-drop. Will smiled. Runes were rare on the Island after... that event. Every Rune helped. He took his catch, including the rune, back to the Volcano, where he threw the fish into the larder and placed the rune onto a small pile of them next to his makeshift wardrobe. He now had nearly enough to perhaps surprise any intruders that appeared. Not that any would. There were only two people on this island, and the other was currently a suicidal drunk. That suicidal drunk had awoken from his sleep. Immortal hangovers were legendary, the cost for having such an efficient liver. He stumbled over to the wall and banged his head against it. Ow, he thought. He reached up and felt the blood on his forehead, which poured back into his head as it healed itself. He just wanted to forget. Just to forget his brother's face, how his brother wheezed and choked. It was a curse of his immortality that he could never, in fact, forget anything. Over a thousand years of memories is enough to drive any man mad. He'd suffered from depression before. Many times, in fact, but never so deep and unrelenting as this. He used to be able to walk off his troubles. Now he was trapped. He'd tried simply walking across the ocean, choking and resurrecting as it pleased him. It sounded like a good idea at the time. But the tides, however much he fought them, were too strong. He'd tried rafts, and suffered the same problem. He knew of only one way of escaping the island - teleportation. But as far as he knew, there were no runes, not after that. Here he was thinking about it again. No, Will wasn't going to allow that suicidal drunk to ruin his plans of escape. It was during his excavation of the volcano that he discovered the tunnels beneath the base. The institute that created these bases needed a way to get around, and so built large underground railways powered by magic. Now all Will had to do was bide his time and try and find enough Runes to power the machine. Then he could sail on, under the Karamjan Sea and across to Lumbridge Castle. At the moment it was nought but a dream. "You can't leave him," a voice said. Will threw himself round to look at the source of the voice. Standing by the larder, wearing white robes stained by blood around the chest, was Will's aged mother. "He played his part in all of this. He should be allowed to escape with you." This couldn't be happening. His mother was dead, erased from time and space. Even here she had a large wound to the chest. Will knew that spirits didn't exist, not really. This was in his mind. He closed his eyes. "Begone, foul spectre of the night!" His mother laughed, and, after walking across the room, she slapped him firmly across the face. He felt his cheek burn where she had struck it. When he opened his eyes, she had gone. Over at the Cave, Orion had taken from a small chest a chess board, and was setting up the pieces. He supposed that maybe it would help him pass the time. He made the first move with great thought, moving his white knight across the required number of squares. "Not an expert move, but enough to confuse my opponent," he muttered to himself. "Indeed," said a familiar voice, "I'd have no idea what you were doing." Orion looked up and his face went a shade of white not covered by the Dulux paint range. His brother Arasiovik was fiddling with his pawn, which he then moved forward two spaces. He too looked up and smiled. "I thought you might need someone to play with." Orion stood up, knocking his chair back as he retreated, finally crashing and collapsing onto the wall in sheer terror. "Ghosts do not exist," he said, "And if they did, they wouldn't visit me!" Arasiovik smiled. "It's not your fault I'm dead, Orion. You couldn't have stopped it." Orion shook his head. His brother smiled again with a dirty grin, and took off his facemask, placing it on the table. "See you later," he said, before evaporating into a reddish mist. Orion crawled over to the chair, reached up and took the bottle of warm wine from the table. End of Chapter 'Chapter Three, 17/1/11' The night fell upon the island as it always did, and as soon as it had arrived it went away again, scared off by the rising sun. The drunk was spread out across the floor, having forsaken a glass in favour of direct application of his own personal poison. Over at the Volcano, and the tall man was sitting in his armchair. If one looked for long enough, one could see that he was rocking back and forth in his chair. Was it really a spirit? Was it maybe just a dream? Or had he finally gone mad? He'd been here for decades, trapped by the same people who once gave him fame and fortune. It was best to keep one's mind off of such things, he thought. To keep his mind off of such things, he took his spear from beside the wardrobe and went out to the shore. A swift throw into the water. He caught a few crabs again. Scrape off. Another throw. Same result. Scrape off. On his third throw, he placed his foot on a sea urchin that had migrated up-water. As he screamed in pain, the spear flew through the air, before suddenly stopping with a decisive squelch. Will grasped at his foot, tears streaming from his eyes, his face blood-red. Ripping the offending spines from his sole, he looked up again to find the source of the noise. This situation had happened before. His spear had impaled another woman, this time in red, who had golden curls and a smile that Will knew all too well. As the poison from the urchin raced into his system, he collapsed into the water. But before the grip of the waves took him, he was lifted from them like an angel rising into the sky. Orion by this time had awoken and made his way, clumsily, to the place where he visited as a ritual every day - the beach where he believed that his brother had arrived on the island, roughly a mile downshore of where he had first awoken, dazed and confused, over two years ago. He'd wash his face and then stumble back, not bothering to look for food. He couldn't feel hunger anymore. He couldn't feel anything anymore. And then, stood in the middle of the jungle, it came to him. A new thought. A process of the mind that wasn't a deep sense of mourning or regret, a new, bright idea. It was as if he'd become a new man. That, or the booze had finally gone past his body's capabilities. The new idea concerned Will, up in the volcano, and it was quite simple; a curiosity. What was he doing up there? The only thing keeping him going right now, the only thing driving him forward, was his lust to find out. When he returned to the cave, he took his camouflage fleece from a chest, slid it on and then checked for any supplies. He took some bread from the cupboard, just in case he needed it, and then took a final check. He'd been avoiding the table, where beside a broken glass and a chess board lay a thin, grimy facemask, and a pile of rotting food. Orion took the facemask and tied it around his mouth, before setting off from his prison and off into the forest. End of Chapter 'Chapter Four, 23/1/11' Orion hadn't been out in the forest for too long. He tripped on branches and lost his way every once in a while. But no matter how little experience he had remaining, he would always be able to make his way to the Volcano. Even before, in his intoxicated and depressed state, he bet that he would able to crawl towards that putrid blot on the island landscape. A rustling. Broken branches snap into smaller pieces like on a log fire, the trees swaying gently away from the disturbance like it was a flee. Something was sprinting through the jungle with the energy and persistence of a madman. Something strong. Orion stopped when he heard it, his foot resting in front of a stringy root. The something was coming in his direction. Closer. Then closer still. A flash of silver in the forest, the quiet hiss of hydraulics. The birds of the forests had eloped from the terror, flying onto the lower grasslands. Nature had tried to escape. Orion liked his chances. The rustling grew louder and louder until it sounded to him like a dull roar, beaconing the arrival of his past. From out of the trees it emerged, still moving, with a hypnotic precision and organisation in every step. In the few seconds Orion had to glimpse it, he recognised it immediately. About 6', a steel plate of armour with a gladiator's helmet and a system of elaborate pipes and joints oiled by further little pipes will oil and grease. The eyes, large pads of bulbs and cameras, were blackened and burnt away, leaving the charred visage of a creature that believes it's fighting for its life. It was gone immediately, the alien rustling disappearing swiftly into the distance. Over at the volcano, and the spectre set Will down on his bed, the queasy mix of icy blood and seawater still dripping onto the floor. She walked over to his large centretable and examined a few items, laughing gently as she did. The laughing seemed to rouse him, his eyes belatedly opening and glancing over at the woman he had once planned to marry. A thousand years' worth of thoughts ran through his head, how it was petty of him to feel so deeply about a high-school romance, how he should have moved on with his long, long life instead of harbouring his deep-seated "mourning". But it was mourning. She had died, long ago. Stuck still on the bed, he watched as she walked over the door to the Jails, the door he had feared for two years. She opened the doors and evaporated into a deep red dust, and the door slammed shut. Will motioned his hand and felt the bedsheets, still wet and stained red by her blood. This was twice now. He had to find out what was going on. Climbing from the bed, he tip-toed across the cavern and placed his hand on the brass knob of the door, and turned. Jammed. Somehow, he knew it would be. The stone-clad William took leave of the cavern and went down into the tunnels beneath. Rusted tracks lay thick upon the ground, glinting in the dim torchlight. On the track sat an oak cart, newer than everything else in the cavern by far. Will had made it from the jungle trees, and forged the wheels from iron found in the stores. It was his labour of love, and now all it needed was a Rune Engine. Rune Engines had been designed by the company that used to own this cavern, a design stolen from the dwarves and then beefed up. At top speed one of these carts could reach up to 80mph, enough to get him the the next post in under an hour. He'd be free. End of Chapter 'Chapter Five, 6/2/11' Funny, what time did. It ravaged most things and left others unscathed. This Orion considered as he leaned down in a clearing of the jungle, resting for a moment in the mid-day sun. In his hand he held a small, ripped square of felt. It was tattered and threadborn but it was still here. Still solid. It had fallen off of a scarecrow, a living scarecrow that had hunted them down to this island in order to unleash a demon onto this world, a demon from another universe. It all seemed implausible now. Life for him had become humdrum and routine, in a sick kind of way. Time had ravaged him, and left the Scarecrow unscathed. He took his bearings from memory and followed the desire lines through the jungle that eventually led to the volcano. Their party had been led by a member of the Island's native organisation, a rather worried man named Kingsley. Orion couldn't remember whether Kingsley was his first or second name. It didn't matter, in the end. That was the only name that needed to written on the tombstone, scratched onto a plank of wood and stuck into the ground. Then, a sound. More twigs broke behind him, but Orion knew better than to turn and face his spirit. And it was a spirit, he knew that by now. Who had his mind pulled up this time, eh? Which demon of his past had returned to give him a piece of their mind? He couldn't stay still. The temptation was unbearable. He swiveled his body round to look, and wasn't surprised. Leaning on a tree trunk was a man named John Dixon, just another alien whose life Orion had inexplicably ended. He was just stood there smiling, his young face and tustled brown hair glinting menacingly in the shadows of the canopy. "What do you want?" Orion said. You had to be to the point with these visions, or they'd just be cryptic and get out of it. But Dixon said nothing, and retained the same position he had held for the past few minutes. What could he do? He couldn't just stand and wait for his mind to work out a way to mess with him. He was tempted to just leave it and walk away. Yes, that's what he would do. Abandon this absurdity. "You think I'm a vision of your mind, don't you?" John said, his stationary glare becoming chillingly solid and cold. His hand moved slowly by his side and withdrew from his pocket a small pebble-shaped object. Orion had already turned and was looking at the object with a bitter glare. "And that's because I am. This pebble," he rolled it around in his hands, "was never really a gift from the Gods. They've had them in Karamja for years, rocks enchanted by local tribesmen to get around their encampment. This one's just had its range boosted a bit, that's all." Putting the imaginary pebble back into his imaginary pocket, the imaginary John Dixon waved an imaginary hand and then vanished into a red mist. Huh, Orion thought. All this, bringing back a man he killed, and all the spirit would mention was a little enchanted pebble. Seemed very strange, that. It was Orion being a moody bastard that had inadvertently led to his death; why not mention that? What was so important about a pebble? "It's not the pebble that's important," a voice said. In almost exactly the same spot that John had stood, a girl had appeared; quite young, with blond hair, rosy cheeks and glasses. Around her neck hung a necklace of a dragon. "It's the idea of transportation. That's what we're getting at." "Who's we?" Orion asked. He knew who the girl was; his aunt, Jennifer, as a young girl. She smiled and giggled irritatingly. "No one. Just a few people in your head. We don't like what you've done to the place. Thought we'd send you in the right direction. You need to get off this island." Orion thought about it for a second, and then wondered exactly how much he'd had to drink the previous night. Another giggle, and the girl disappeared into red. Over at the Volcano, and Will was sitting quietly at his desk, his makeshift curtains drawn. He preferred to work by candle-light; he believed it helped one to concentrate. It might blot out the visions, he thought. If he couldn't see the things his mind was throwing up, they couldn't harm him. But they'd appeared, nonetheless. He could hear them. Prisoners, grunting and screaming, insane patients crying and shouting in tongues. The mother that drove him to drink, the father who never wanted him, the siblings who became artists and peacekeepers and people trying to eradicate prejudice. He'd been documenting every one, having already filled several sheets of parchment. There was another one. Another vision. This one was sat on the bed, lying down and laughing in a laugh which made Will's skin prick up. The laugh made him turn and look at the vision. It was a tall man wearing a purple overcoat and trousers, with long shoes and silk gloves. But his face was what drove the dagger in. On his face was a pale white mask, stained red around the eyes and lips, in front of a shock of purple hair and creased ears. And the laughter. It never stopped, the same ricocheting laughter driving him mad. Will blinked, and there was nought but a red dust on the bed. The laughing stopped. Will began to laugh, a quaint silence overtaking him. He began to scribble more notes. End of Chapter 'Chapter Six, 11/2/11' That gloved hand, moving slowly up to his shoulder. He'd felt it before, or thought he had, or dreamed he had. He was blurring out the reason, though. The hand and its casing were as familiar to him as the air in his lungs, but he would never bring himself to remember the specifics. He'd spent the last hour sketching symbols that even he didn't understand onto parchment, blending them together like threads on a loom. There it was. He hesitated from his ignorant vigil for just a second, and the hand on his shoulder became real. His name was Louis Dementre, nicknamed Lou Demente because of just what the creators had given him as a gift. Lou had known Will since his school days, when he'd committed a crime that he could never forgive. The Abraskian Academy had burnt to the ground in a few hours, managing to kill everyone inside. Immortals could survive many things, but nothing can survive fire. Glancing up from his parchment, Will looked round at the the hand. It was gone, and yet the feeling still remained. More visitations had also befallen Orion, whose journey through the forests had been taking longer than was expected. They'd become rather bemusing now, with appearances from his father, schoolteachers, long-lost cousins and a woman from whom he once borrowed fifty coins. Whatever was causing them was obviously getting quite desperate by now, dragging up the most minuscule memories to confuse or dazzle him. Yet Orion walked on by, ignoring the protests and pleas of the forgotten echos and edging ever further to the Volcano. He couldn't be far now. Only a mile or so. He'd crossed the central river only a few hours ago, tracing his steps after two years. Then there it was, spurting proud from the mountainside. A large round hatch, rusted and sharp around the edges. It had been left ajar, the wind flowing into the corridor within and making a high-pitched moan. Orion ran over and tried to pull the hatch aside. No use. The previous occupant had been a man of much greater strength than he, and there was little to no chance that he was going to be able to open it. The red dust stirred. What appeared from the soil was not, as he had first thought, another obscure family member. It was a small boy, his hair a fair silver. He dressed in black robes and left his hair in unkempt tangles. At first Orion had trouble recognising the boy. And then the wave of thought hit him. This vision was of himself, over a millennium ago. End of Chapter 'Chapter Seven, 11/3/11' Man looked unto boy, and deep into the depths of the younger self's eyes. The face; gaunt, starved of sunlight for what felt like an eternity; abandoned by his quarreling parents whose arguments distracted them from their offspring. Orion couldn't place himself in his memories, and perhaps he didn't want to. The child was his mind's last card, its last battlement. The last stand. The boy's look shifted, as subtly as it could have done and still retain its melancholy vigil. An inquisitive shrug of the eyebrows. Curved edges around the lips. "Have you seen my father?" asked the boy, "I've been looking for him everywhere". Orion's heart felt a sharp pang of despair, like a poison spreading through his blood. He opened his mouth to speak and hesitated for a second. "I haven't seen your father in a very long time," he eventually managed. He felt a sharp headache as the boy unlocked his gaze and stared at the floor; probably the alcohol deprivation kicking in. "What's your name?" the boy asked. No, he thought. This was a lie. An illusion. He'd known it then and he knew it now; this was an illusion and he didn't have to answer anything. Orion turned to face the hatch into the volcano once more, to find the hatch wide open, and as he did so the boy began to sob. A backwards glance. Stop, he thought, stop it now. Not real. Make it stop. Not real. "Have you seen my brother either?" he cried between prolonged sobs. The crying stopped, and there was a gust of wind through the trees, like an artist brushing a canvas. Tears in each eye, he took one glance back at the boy, and wasn't surprised to see that where once he stood there lay a pile of red dust. One count of First Degree Murder, 100 years penal sentence. Two counts of Second Degree Murder, total additional 100 years penal sentence. One count of breaking the peace; 30 years penal servitude. Will could still remember the words. He never meant for those people to die, and yet they did. Because of one of his stupid crushes. How was that just? How was that fair? In all honesty Will had long suspected that the hallucinations were being caused by some foreign source, but he was now convinced that they originated only in his own mind. They wouldn't make any sense, otherwise, he thought. He'd tried to ignore them. Tried to stop them. But now he was as much of a blubbering, depressed mess as the man in that cave, out in the jungle. He tried to pull himself from his bed, but then he heard that laugh and he once again slumped down. He didn't deserve the salve of good whisky. Orion wandered over to the pile of dust and took out a handkerchief from his pocket, into which he folded some of the offending powder. Leaving the jungle for what was to be the last time, he made off into the tunnel, the red dust sealed firmly in his torn and ragged trouser pocket. End of Chapter 'Chapter Eight, 12/3/11' At the time of the incident, two years prior, the organisation working on the island had been running a project which was an attempt to improve upon their cybernetic technology. Eventually these cyber-drones had overrun the facility before all being shut down and dismantled, but not before they'd assisted in the events of that week. Orion had often wondered what had become of them; wandering through the tunnels into the complex answered him. Lining the walls like wrapping paper were lumps of charred metal, varied in colour, some resembling human body parts and others blobs of mashed potato. The drones had been cut up and melted down, their remains left to mark the tunnels like streams of blood in an abattoir. He'd never seen anything like it before; the mechanical equivalent of a pit full of corpses. As he walked down the rust-encrusted path he was forced to step over heads and arms, as well as the scorched remains of the organic parts of the machines. Orion walked on further and after he had been walking for another ten minutes, he noticed that lit torches began to line the edges of the tunnels. The walls were holed at their bases by Yacti nests, and dried dung left a musty and stale stench of neglect. It was clear that someone had once cared for these tunnels; not any more. William was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Even that couldn't provide him with any solace; twisted and contorted into unimaginable shapes. Magic did things like that to the world. Back on Lunica the Immortals used to teach a myth about a planet on which there was no magic, a planet third from its sun where the people used Dwarf-like technology to achieve the same things they'd been doing for centuries. Will supposed it was some sort of fable about the chaos of depending upon magic, but it didn't work. This "Earth" planet was still as chaotic as Lunica and Gielinor. There was still war. Poverty. Disease. Madness. A reddish mist stirred, and the dust condensed into the now-familiar appearance of Louis Dementre. It didn't phase William anymore. He'd realised that this man had been dead for over four hundred years, and nothing that this illusion could do would make him regret that. The illusion chuckled. "I'm sure you think I'm here to make a confession. Try and appeal to your guilt, or your regret, or your extensive self loathing," it said,"But I'm not. I'm here for another reason entirely." Dementre came up close to Will's ear and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "On the other side of that door is a madman. He's come to kill you. I thought I'd give you a head's up." Will shot up in bed and the illusion disappeared; his head shot to the door. In the corridor, Orion took a torch and approached the ornate wooden door that led into the large hall. Removing the facemask from his mouth, he knocked three times. There was no answer. 'Chapter Nine, 13/3/11' What had been a door was now nought but the representation, in Will's mind, of all fear. As he stood, sword in hand, he considered his options. In the near past he would have doubted the claims made by the illusion but now he knew them as gospel. Whoever was on the other side of that door, and it could only be one person, had come to kill him. What to do, what to do? He could hide. Hide in the mine tunnels. No! That's what Orion wants, he wants to steal the way off the island. No. He would stand and fight. Stand and fight that... that drunk. That dog. That madman. He was the madman, Will was perfectly sane, it was Orion that had the issues. Wasn't it? There were three knocks at the door. Him. The time had come, at last. But there were doubts. Of course there were doubts. Will couldn't kill another one of his kind again, not like this. They were the only ones left. How could he face himself after that, after what would now constitute genocide? He blinked, and Dementre once again appeared, this time stood by the door, the plastic grin upon his mask stained red by blood, dripping forth from his mouth. His gloved hand reached for the handle and twisted. Orion took a step back as the door opened by itself, and he saw Will stood in the centre of the room, clutching a sword in his right hand. Orion looked at the sword and so did Will, and they both locked eyes. Silence once more swam into the room. Will looked round and started mumbling, as if talking to someone. Orion couldn't see it, whatever it was. The illusion of Dementre was stood by Will's ear, screaming. "KILL HIM!" he screamed, "DO IT NOW, YOU COWARD!" For a second, Will tightened his grip on the sword, preparing to raise it. And it was then that Orion spoke. "I'm here to see how you're doing," he said. Like a human being, like someone who cared about him. No one cared about him. Louis Dementre didn't care. He couldn't care; he wasn't real. Will's grip loosened and the sword fell to the floor with a resounding clang. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," he said, "I've been seeing things recently." Almost emphatically they both chuckled. Orion gave a recognising smile. "Decided to come out of your cave, then?" Will asked, picking up the sword and placing it back into his chest. "Yeah, I wanted to see how your raft was going." Will laughed and closed the chest, before turning to face Orion. "There is no raft, but there is a way of getting off the island. Dwarven carts powered by magic; they can take us to other ex-ZTI bases like the one under Lumbridge. I just need enough runes to run it." Orion felt his pocket and withdrew the handkerchief filled with the red dust. "This might do," he wondered aloud. Will motioned towards the trapdoor and they both climbed down into the tunnel, where the rusted but sturdy cart lay waiting. Orion threw the dust onto the cart and the two gems at its front lit up, casting a green glow through the murky tunnels. It was ready to go. End of Chapter 'Chapter Ten, 15 and 16/4/11' The chime of the grandfather clock echoed throughout the crooked room, its ticking and tocking punctuating the room's harmonious silence. Sat in a carved teak rocking chair was Orion, warming his bare and wrinkled feet by the roaring fireplace. He looked round wearily. Like the tired sloth he reached down and took his varnished cane, then, with great effort, pushed himself up and hobbled over the the clock. "We're both getting old, my dear," he whispered, turning and taking a few more pained step towards the door. The bolt slid across and the door crept open with Orion's gentle persuasion, the harsh wind sweeping into the chamber. More pained steps. His cane sank deep into the frost as he ventured outside for the first time in 50 years. Time travels differently when you're old. Most immortals don't let it happen to them, but Orion had, and for him the last five decades had passed in a heartbeat. He'd wandered here from the mountains and found the shack abandoned. Might as well live here for a bit, he had thought. Didn't see the point of moving now. Nothing wrong with the place, after all. A bit cold, maybe, he thought. But he couldn't feel the cold. A light shone in the darkness of the night, through the torrent of snowflakes and the harsh Winter winds. It approached, its holder trudging through the wastes. Orion knew who it was before he had even noticed the light; Will had come to visit. He came into vision, wearing a thick woollen coat and carrying upon his shoulders a large hamper. Without saying a word, Orion moved inside and Will followed him in. Will, for one reason or another, had aged little in comparison. A century had passed since they had escaped the island, and for him it had fallen hard and rough. He had forgotten, in his desperation to escape, that everyone he knew and loved was now dust, floating around the planet's atmosphere, and that there was nothing left for him. "You've got to get yourself out of this state," Orion said, as Will pulled a chair from the corner and sat on the opposite side of the fire. "I've told you time and time again. It's not your fault they died." He turned turned his head. "I ask myself, perhaps too often," he said, sombrely, "whether it was worth it. Leaving the island. Tried to go back at one point, travel back along the minecarts. Couldn't. As soon as the Misthalin government found out about the revolutionary minecart system underneath Gielinor, it was theirs for the taking. All shut off." He dropped the hamper to the floor and reached into it, pulling out a bottle of whisky. "For you." "I don't drink," Orion said bluntly. "Doesn't do me any good. I'm getting on, you know." They both shared a laugh. Orion had begun sporting a long grey beard, and he had appeared to age a lot more than his far older comrade. "Last time I drank, I started seeing things." Will had spent many of his years after the escape studying the strange phenomena that had plagued both escapees just prior. He'd come up with many theories, a large amount of them self-admittedly mad. Eventually, he concluded, it had to be one of three things. The first, the most likely, was that they were both going mad on the island. Everything that happened - his mother's slap, Shepressa's bleeding - were figments of his won imagination. The second theory, Mayaki spies, also had its flaws, but one that interested Will the most was the one that he wanted the most to believe. He believed that the red dust - the red dust that seemed to appear everywhere round the illusions, was in fact the remains of an ancient demon. A demon by the name of Angeror. End Epilogue Orion and Will spent the rest of their lives living peacefully amongst Gielinor's human population. The Immortals became extinct, as they thought they never would. After the destruction of both Lunica and Angeror, aliens seemed to leave Gielinor alone - that is, until Gielinor started advancing on its own. Prototype was eventually found by the Misthalin government and his now shut-down body was added to the Varrock Museum. The Dracomancers continued to be an active force on Gielinor, eventually creating the alliance with the Gielinor Defence Group that they'd forged in their parallel universe. The Mayaki joined them, forming the Society for the Holy Acceptance of Goblins (S.H.A.G.) The Creators stopped arguing for a change and managed to sort out a deal with the Gielinorian Gods to stop messing around and to actually do some work once in a while. Angeror's remains still float around the island in the middle of the Karamjan Sea. No one has yet arrived to retrieve them. See Also Category:Before the Storm stories